


stars in your eyes and a target on your back

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:13:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8160145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: She had two options: embarrass herself further or make a graceless retreat.Pod, she reminded herself. It’s Pod’s nameday, and he wants the Dragonknight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ...must not fall behind, must not fall behind...
> 
> **JB Week '16, Day 4: Reluctance**
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to Isy, my A+ beta.

He was the only employee for at least three aisles in either direction. Brienne knew because she’d checked, meandering up one aisle and down the next in the futile hope of finding someone a little less _intimidating._  She hated striking up conversations with strangers—never mind that they were paid to smile and nod—and this particular stranger left her stomach flipping and her palms sweating. Broad shoulders, clearly defined in his standard-issue polo, and hair that gleamed golden even under the unforgiving fluorescents. He’d been helping a kid the last time she’d shuffled by, but now he was leaning against a stand of Children of the Forest plush dolls, scrolling through his phone in a way that screamed, _Report me to my manager. My father owns this stupid store._

It was the stuff of nightmares.

Bolstering her courage, Brienne squared her shoulders and took one, two, three purposeful steps down the aisle.

“Excuse me.”

He didn’t look up—doubtless daydreaming about the end of his shift.

Brienne cleared her throat and spoke louder. “Excuse me. Ser?”

His eyes flicked instinctively towards the sound. He started when he saw her staring down at him, expectant; he looked over his shoulder, probably searching for some way out of this. She knew the feeling.

“Do I know you?” he asked rudely.

It stung a little, but Brienne squared her shoulders and let the insult slide off. Sometimes not even people paid not to laugh could find a polite smile for her.

“Sorry,” she said by rote, “but I need some help.”

He looked her up and down, from the frizzy roots of her hair to the shiny leather boots that still pinched when she walked. He looked at her like he could see her Florian the Fool underwear, printed in motley and traced in lace.

“Clearly.” He snorted and went back to his phone.

Brienne flushed, scrubbing her palms down her jeans. She had two options: embarrass herself further or make a graceless retreat.

 _Pod,_  she reminded herself. _It’s Pod’s nameday, and he wants the Dragonknight._

“I’m looking for the Prince Aemon action figure.”

“Good for you,” he said, refusing her the courtesy of putting down his phone.

Brienne’s mouth twisted in annoyance. She was used to being shuffled off as quickly as possible, used to fake smiles and snickers before she’d cleared the aisle. But she was 6 foot 3 and more _ugly_ than _unpretty._  She didn’t know what to do with this blatant disregard.

“Your website says it’s in stock, but it’s not with the other Dragonknight merchandise,” she continued doggedly, keeping a firm grip on her patience. “So if you could just point me in the right direction . . .”

Reluctantly, he lifted his face from the screen. That face put the menswear models to shame, all smooth jaw and verdant eyes. For the space of a breath, the rest of the store faded to black and white.

Brienne’s stomach zig-zagged unpleasantly. She didn’t do well with good-looking men, and this one had planted a flag squarely in Stupidly Attractive territory. His phone cast luminescent shadows on his face, purple here, yellow there. It had the satisfying appearance of a mottled bruise. If not for that, she would’ve been halfway across the store, hunkered down in home goods.

“Do I look like I work retail?” he said, sounding derisive and amused and baffled, all at once.

She crossed her arms, balling them into fists at her ribs. Her thumb flicked over the bone there, unused to the silkiness of her shirt.

“Um.” Brienne cast about for some glib reply, feeling utterly stupid. She assessed his pressed khakis, the rich red of his polo, the abandoned stocking cart filled with plastic mermaids and stuffed krakens. “Is that a trick question?”

His mouth fell open, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline, but before he could land a punchline, a new voice echoed down the aisle. “You know, Jaime, I think they don’t _want_ to sell any of these Seven-cursed toys. If I weren’t so vertically challenged, I never would’ve found them.”

Brienne turned to see the kid that the sales guy— _Jaime,_  apparently—had been helping earlier. Only he wasn’t a kid. Brienne did her best not to gape. From the longsuffering expression on the dwarf’s face, she did a terrible job of it. Her eyes landed on the figurine in his arms, plastic gleaming under the fluorescents like her own personal knight in shining armor.

“Is that a limited edition Aemon the Dragonknight action figure?” she asked a little desperately. “Please tell me it’s not the last one.”

She looked back at Jaime, hoping for confirmation of some secret stockpile in the back.

The dwarf snickered. “Does she think you work here?”

Jaime grimaced. It was obnoxious how he still looked like the Warrior made flesh.

“Apparently.”

Before she could do more than comprehend that, okay, she’d just made a fool of herself in front of the most attractive non-Target employee she’d ever seen, and she would have to shop exclusively online from this point forward, the little man laughed. Jaime’s grimace deepened to a glare, which only spurred his friend on. Before long he was bent nearly double, clutching an ache in his ribs from the wheezing guffaws. The toy slipped from his fingers to clatter to the tile, but he didn’t notice, too taken with laughing at Brienne.

“Okay,” Jaime cut in, a little sourly, “you’ve made your point.”

When the dwarf continued chortling, Jaime turned his grimace on her. Her face twisted into a pathetic approximation of an apology, but his eyes were strangely commiserating, like this was some shared trial they’d been thrust into against their will.

“Tyrion,” he said loudly over the laughter, “if you keep on like this, I’ll have no choice but to share the video of Father’s fiftieth on Ravenbook.”

The threat landed swiftly. The dwarf straightened, stifling his mirth with visible effort. “I’m sorry, Jaime.” He just missed sincerity. “But how many times did I say that you looked like a bad cutout from a Storm’s End catalogue?”

Brienne shifted on her feet, listening to the telltale _squeak_ of her practical Storm’s End boots.

“Aunt Genna gave me this shirt. It’s from Pentos.”

“That explains things,” Tyrion said sagely. “Between you and me, she could stand to wear less scarlet. There’s such a thing as _too much_ family pride.”

“Oh? Do tell that to your new sportscar.”

“Jaime, you’re wearing khakis,” Tyrion pointed out drolly.

Apparently they had descended into the family in-jokes portion of the afternoon. Brienne decided it was time to cut her losses. Maybe Pod would like a Symeon Star-Eyes action figure instead. The glittering sapphires in his miniature eye sockets had been hard to miss.

She edged toward the end of the aisle.

“You, there,” Tyrion called before she made it two steps. “Tall girl!”

Brienne sighed. Sneaking away had never been in her wheelhouse. She turned, resigning herself to another painstaking conversation, only to clap her hands together around the UFO sailing towards her groin. Turning the projectile over in her hands, she found a Dragonknight figurine wrapped in shiny plastic.

“What— ?” she managed.

“You earned it.”

“I can’t just . . . ” She turned a baffled expression on Jaime, before remembering that it qualified as a Very Bad Idea. Her eyes leapt back to Tyrion before his older _whatever_ could make her feel any stupider. “Don’t you need this?”

Tyrion looked amused. “You wouldn’t have it if it were the last one.”

And that was the end of that.

“Jaime,” he said, shuffling backwards in the wrong direction, “check Aisle 9.”

Jaime’s answering look said, _I’m putting up with this because you’re family, but I’m also giving you shit for it later_.

“Where are you going?”

“Why, to the wine, of course. You don’t expect me to make it through some snot-nosed kid’s nameday party without refreshments, do you?”

 _"Where_ on aisle 9?”

 _Time to go,_  Brienne told herself, but her feet were intent on mutiny.

“You’ll find it. I have every faith in you. Just think like a dwarf,” his voice echoed around the corner, but the store had already swallowed him.

Suddenly Brienne was alone in the fairytale aisle with the most obnoxiously attractive guy she’d ever made a fool of herself with. She clutched the Dragonknight toy to her chest, shifting awkwardly.

“So . . .” Jaime dragged out the word; a dismissal. Her stomach twisted in what was surely relief as he took a step backwards.

“There’s a few Symeon Star-Eyes left,” she heard herself say. “I can show you where to find them.”

She was surprised when he stopped; rather less so when he shook his head.

“The kid wants the Dragonknight.” He flashed her a rueful smile. “Tyrion talks a good game, but he’d never disappoint Pod.”

Everything in her screeched to a halt. “Pod?” she repeated numbly. “Podrick _Payne?"_

He opened his mouth, question on his lips, and his eyes fell on the plastic box pilling the shiny fabric of her shirt.

A laugh burst from him, loud and clear. It dropped through her chest to curl in her stomach, humming. He wasn’t laughing at her. She didn’t know how she knew, but in that moment, she would’ve sworn an oath on it.

“Okay,” he agreed, sauntering closer. “No Dragonknight. What else does Podrick like? I’ve never actually met the kid.”

Brienne bit her lip, turning the action figure over in her hands.

“No,” Jaime cut her off before she could offer, “Tyrion surrendered that, fair and square. It’s his own damn fault if he doesn’t have the right gift. Anyway, he’s probably stuffed a hundred dragon note in the card.”

She boggled at that, but he seemed not to notice.

“Who’s next on the list? Visenya? Azor Ahai? I’m a fan of Lann the Clever personally, but I’ll admit he has a niche market.”

Brienne wondered if she’d stepped into the House of the Undying. Things like this didn’t happen in real life.

“He has Lann,” she finally managed, feet pulling her towards Aisle 9. Jaime fell in step like a shadow. The heat of him shivered up her back, and she walked faster. “And Bran the Builder. He’s been reading up on the Kingsguard lately.” Her boots scuffed the tile as she stopped abruptly, an array of action figures just level with her elbows. “Maybe Ser Duncan?”

“Sold.” Jaime snatched Ser Duncan the Tall, stalwart and shiny in his plastic wrapping. After a moment, he grabbed Barristan the Bold for good measure.

“Right,” Brienne said, taking a step back. “I really am sorry about all that—” She waved her hand at his shirt, then dropped it awkwardly. Her fingernails _scritched_ the seam of her pants, a tick she’d never quite gotten rid of. “Um, I guess I’ll see you at the party?”

He hummed a noncommittal sound, stacking the boxes in the crook of his arm. Brienne took another step away, and he leaned back, eyeing her from head to heels like some sideshow at the county fair.

Brienne stiffened. The smile that tugged his lips suggested that yes, he really _could_ see her Florian the Fool underwear.

“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.

She supposed it wouldn’t be polite to yell, “You, tall girl!” across Pod’s party later.

“Brienne Tarth.”

“Brienne,” he repeated, weighing the syllables in his mouth. “Hmm.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, clenched fingers warping the plastic box in her hands. A flush crept up her neck as he eyed her, and she did her best to will it away.

“I think I’ll call you . . .”

With a broad, innocent grin she wouldn’t have believed on the Maiden herself, he snatched a box from the shelf and turned it to face her: Mylla the Serving Wench.

“. . . wench.”

The sound that escaped her was all indignation. “My name is—”

“Brienne,” he agreed amiably, moving into her. “So, wench, I have a question for you.”

She grit her teeth. The plastic crackled in her hand. “Yes?”

He eyed the shelf, musing. Maybe he wanted a Marq the Miller to go with his new serving wench.

But Jaime didn’t ask her about another nameday present. He slid his elbow among the army of warriors and leaned into her, all searing eyes and sharp intent. His mouth curved into the kind of smile that was frankly unfair.

“Do you think Pod would mind if you brought a date?”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is much appreciated.


End file.
